René d'Herblay, alias Aramis

Aramis stares at the closed door for a very long time.

Porthos has promised to return, but Aramis cannot help but feel that he will not, that he will be lost as d'Artagnan and Constance were, or even worse - that he will discover he is happier elsewhere - in some other home, some other life, free of the burdens Aramis' own heavy heart places on them.

He stares, but the door does not reopen. He is alone, and all at once their bright living room is a darkened basement, and Aramis cannot bear it a moment longer. Standing, he looks down at himself and does not wonder that Porthos left. He is a mess, in day old clothes and with an unshorn beard, but Aramis does not pause to sort himself before he ascends the stairs that lead to Athos' apartments.

Aramis opens the door and peers inside, calling in a voice he wishes were stronger. "Athos?"

In the end, Aramis does not wait long.

In the time that follows their own terrible discoveries, Aramis hangs onto his nerve as best he can, and Athos prevents his descent into despair with touches and a few well placed words. Despite his best efforts, Aramis still feels restlessly caught between wishing to see Porthos and never facing him with this. He excuses himself to the shower in the hope that it will make him feel right again, but the warm water sluicing down his body is too reminiscent of tears, and Aramis hurries lest he finally break and begin weeping. If he does, he may never stop, and Aramis dries and dresses quickly to return to Athos.

He has only just stepped from the bedroom door when he hears a key in the lock outside, Porthos' heavy steps settling just long enough to work it open.

The blood drains from Aramis' cheeks like a stopper pulled, and he eyes Athos in near panic, but they both know what must come next. He's sick with exhaustion and heavy with grief, but Aramis is a soldier. Not a one of them will be any better for it if he balks from this, and he fights against the way his body wants to curl in to protect his middle, his heart, the way his arms itch to reach for Porthos the moment he passes through the door.

Drawing an unsteady breath, Aramis lets his eyes pass over Porthos for what might be their last moment of peace, and locks the image away inside of him.

As with the ride to the hospital, the ride home again feels interminable, and the cabbie's constant chatter grates on Aramis' nerves. All he wants is for the three of them to be together, but to reach that point, he must first collect Porthos' requested items and, far more distressingly, break the news to Athos. Aramis would dearly love to take a moment and weep as well, but there is no time, and when at last the taxi pulls up to the curb, Aramis all but throws his money and launches himself from the vehicle.

He arrives back at his own door much as he left it, hair wild when he throws it open to stare with red eyes at the scene he'd abandoned. Papers and child rearing magazines he would like to tear from existence still lie askew on the table, the path he'd charged half over, half around the chairs still in place. Aramis cannot take the time to right things now, however, and he drags his hands through his hair, looking around with red rimmed eyes. "Athos?" he calls. Now that he is home again, he recalls that he'd put his phone down to grab his coat. Kneeling, Aramis checks and yes, there it is beneath the chaise. Tucking it safely away again, Aramis rises.

"Athos? Are you home?"

It is a peaceful scene Aramis returns to in late afternoon, his arms filled with sickbed provisions - soups not even he can destroy, more pain reducing medicines, a pillow for Porthos' foot. He places his items on the table and smiles at Porthos and Athos, curled together on the chaise in much the same position Athos had discovered he and Porthos in some weeks before. Unlike the observer of that day, Aramis' heart is warmed by their proximity, and he comes forward, brushing a kiss to the top of Porthos' head before he pulls the blankets more evenly over them both, touching his fingertips briefly to Athos' hair as he straightens.

They've made a small mess of things, but it's no more than Aramis expects between Porthos' endless bored fidgeting and the cat's enthusiastic efforts to help him lay waste to the apartment. Aramis quietly collects the sandwich plates, wiping crumbs from the table before he reaches for Athos' ubiquitous wine glass.

And finds two.

Aramis' eyes pass up and over both their forms to settle on Porthos' lips, open in his slumber and bearing a distinct stain of wine. It has not been sipped or tasted, it has been guzzled in Porthos' customary form, against Aramis' concern and clear instruction.

Aramis stands abruptly, collecting the bottle as he goes and striding immediately to the sink, where he upends the bottle until it is empty and throws it with his usual excellent aim into the garbage bin. Satisfied by the rattle, he goes to the pantry and collects another, dumping its contents down the sink with its fellow, and reaches for a third.